Easy
by gilmorefanforever
Summary: Dying is easy. Living through the death isn't. Booth angst, with a hint of BB. Oneshot.


Easy

**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **I have 206 bones. The ones that belong to Fox, Hart Hanson, etc. aren't included in that package.

Oh my God, the angst. I honestly have no idea where this came from, but it made me sad to write it. I'm not sure what I think of it… It's either going to be a winner or a total loser. Enjoy, I guess?

**--**

Dying is so easy.

There are thousands of ways to end a life—one of God's cruelest jokes, you think. Some are relatively painless, welcomed, even. Just drifting away in your sleep… The harsh ones, the brutal stabbings, the strangulation, the gunshot wounds—your specialty—those are the worst ways to go.

But each life gone is awful in its own way.

Death and you are old friends, as twisted as that is. It has been a constant in your bitter past, from the day you came home and found your mother on the floor, knife next to her, blood oozing from the slit in her wrist. She begged you to forgive her when she noticed you standing in the doorway, horrified. But she told you she had to go, and to just let her.

You didn't. You couldn't. You called 911, she lived. You cheated Death that day and he didn't forget. He sure as hell didn't forgive, either. He followed you, instead.

Fast forward, to your days in the army. You became the Grim Reaper, and your scythe was a semi-automatic rifle. You'd be lying if you said that you didn't enjoy the surge of adrenaline that came from each pull of the trigger, each bullet that hit exactly where you aimed, and that scared you. Sometimes you still find yourself lying awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering if you're a monster—thinking you are.

And during one of the bad nights, the nights when you hate yourself more than anything else, and you're willing to do anything just to stop the pain of it all, you came up with your plan. Gambling wasn't working the same way anymore, and even when it did work, your demons smacked you in the face twice as hard the second you closed your eyes. But maybe if you traded something, if you caught as many, twice as many, three times as many, murderers as people you killed, it would eventually balance out. You'd finally have some peace.

It turned out to be hard, very hard, much harder than you expected, and that fit, ironically. Something difficult to make up for something that had been far too easy. You made yourself keep going, accepting others aide, yes, but never letting them close enough to actually _help_ you. Until her.

You hated her at first, everything about her. Typical Squint, you scoffed when you first met her, thinking everyone was below her just because she had a fancy title and a few degrees. That changed, of course, and you grew to care more deeply about Temperance Brennan than you did for anyone else.

There's still one thing you hate about her, though, even now. You're ashamed of it, ashamed of yourself. But you can't stand how damn easy it is for her.

She sees the same things you do, the same murders. She holds the victims bones in her hands, gives them a face and learns if they broke their bones when they were six, or if they put up a fight in the final moments. But Death hasn't broken her—not like he broke you. You can't picture Bones lying awake at night, praying for the images to stop. She's stronger than that. Stronger than you.

And you're jealous.

It's late at now, and you can't sleep. No surprise there. And tonight, there's only one thing—one person—who will help you. When you pull into her apartment complex, however, her car is gone. She could be anywhere, but something, instinct, perhaps, tells you she's at the lab.

So you drive to the Jeffersonian, startling the night watchman, who relaxes when he sees it's you. He points behind him, towards the Medico-Legal Lab, and you smile. She's here, then. You give the watchman—Carl?—a nod and make your way towards the lab, wondering how you're going to explain your sudden appearance to her, but not caring enough to stop.

But then you freeze. You hear… crying. Not sobbing, not even loud enough to notice if it weren't so eerily quiet, but it's there. Is it Bones? It has to be, right? You start walking again, quickening you pace, hoping she's alright.

It's dark, but you can see her, just as you've seen her so many times before, on the platform with a long bone in her hand. A small wooden box is open in front of her, and her head is bowed down. There's no doubt in your mind that she was the one producing the sounds you heard down the hall.

"Bones?" you call. She looks up, and self-consciously runs a hand across her cheeks.

"I… Booth, what are you doing here?"

"I was passing by on my way home, and I saw your car was here." It's a lie, you both know it. But she doesn't bother to question where you could have possibly been that this was on your way, or how you noticed her car when she's parked underground.

"Oh," she whispers. Then she points to the box. "It's Brenda Fletcher. Her, um," she rubs her arm, obviously uncomfortable; "her parents want to put her to rest as soon as possible."

You nod, suddenly realizing what the box is. It's a small casket for an even smaller six year old girl. "Right."

"I…" She trails off.

"Bones," you begin, digging through the pockets of the jeans you had thrown on as you left your apartment, hoping that you left your Jeffersonian ID in them, "are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she asserts.

You pull out the card, which had been hidden in your back pocket for reasons unknown to you, and make your way up to where she's standing. "I heard crying."

Her face hardens, and you know you've caught her. "I wasn't crying, I just—"

"Bones," you cut her off.

She relents. "She was so young. She never had a chance to be anyone. She had that taken away from her!" She stops to breathe, then spins to face you. "I just wish it were…" She leaves the sentence hanging, almost as if she's not sure what she wants to say.

Her eyes plead with you to understand, and you do. You understand just how wrong you were when you thought that she isn't just as broken as you are. You supply the word she's searching for. "Easier."

"Easier," she agrees with a nod. "I just want it to be easier."

You slip your fingers through hers and glance down at Brenda's tiny skeleton, feeling Bones relax just the tiniest bit, and with that, a small portion of the weight on your shoulders disappear. Facing Death is never easy.

But having someone who understands helps.

**--**

In case you can't tell from that, angst isn't my strong suit. But I started typing, and this is what came out.

Please review.


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